Within the depths of night, the orc trudged on slowly. He did not know how long he had been traveling, could not particularly recall where he had started, and did not quite remember where it was he was supposed to be headed. He was ensconced in twilight within and without, and each day and night had seemed to blend into one long featureless epoch without the opportunity to start afresh that sleep afforded the living.

He would recall some poetry to lighten the drudgery, he thought. He could still recall one of the old ditties from days gone by. Back when he had written. When he possessed the appropriate implements -- a quill, parchment, a willing mind, food for thought. They were never all that refined, but the process of composition occupied him on slow nights when he had want of occupation, and was after all an exercise of his intellectual muscles and creative power.

Power. Yes. In writing Lok’vadnod and its idiosyncratic variants, it was as though he had become the Warchief of a nation not of orcs, trolls and all-sorts, but of rhyme, meter and literary propriety. He attempted to recall some late piece of his -- a morbid rumination inspired by the tribe’s troubled sojourn in the barren wastes of Silithus. What was it called again? Ah. Of course: Torn an’ A-Frayed. That particular piece of wordplay had always amused him. Regardless, how did it go again? Ah, like this:

No. There were pieces missing from his recollection -- the more he struggled to remember, the more he seemed to forget. The scraps remaining were in their proper place, yes, but amounted to so little as to render the whole illegible gibberish. He repeated the first line, satisfied in its wholeness -- was it the tactual sensation of finger against sleeve that rendered it memorable? I run me fingers down the sleeve. I un fing rs do t e eve. u i do t e . No. Even that was losing its semblance of coherency before his mind’s eye.

Then again, the whole poem was a little dour, angsty -- the kind that can be satisfying to write by means of attaining catharsis, but unpleasing to recall afterwards. Though cheer was a privilege of those that still drew breath, perhaps it was cheer that was needed. Happy thoughts. Happy songs. Happy-- yes! The Call to Arms, no doubt it was still current. It had echoed throughout taverns in those sanguine days of Theramore’s annihilation, when the Horde was one united whole. All together!

Fragments. Unhelpful. Clenching bone-cold fists and yellowed teeth, the orc’s entire form girded itself in an effort to focus its efforts upon the remembrance of those lost -- of those stolen lines. Oh ey, the blood oat sat us ore. No, that made no sense. Ave pik o mrs... utter nonsense. Even when bellowed by the most bombastic drunkards, he was certain there was some basic meaning to the ditty. He would have to try harder.

Desperate times: he invoked an exaltation of happier times. Much happier times, when he drew breath, commanded respect, and was inspired by a worldly muse, back when feeling was still felt. All he could feel now was absence, but that was a feeling nonetheless -- if he could latch upon the dulled pang of grief, that might result in something altogether more familiar. A pattern, an order, something complete -- for the heightened anxieties of the worry-stricken mind often followed the same processes in perpetuity, following bad to worse to worse...r... to worse...st. His grammar was failing, he would have to invoke the spectre of burning passion again:

No, the orc mouthed. Fading, fading, all is fading within the mind. If all turns to twilight, I should not ever arrive at my destination, for his journey had a sacrosanct purpose, and that purpose lay in the not too distant past. Forget that and he would not be journeying, but wandering. Forget that and he would not arrive, but ever continue, onwards onto nothing. He struggled to recall faces, but the familiar shapes of certain names formed on his lips, along with certain sentiments. He struggled to remember as many as possible, for if he might remember them, he could yet remember himself.

Names. Names. There was Mazguul. The word felt warm and accommodating to say. But there was nothing but a name and some faint images -- a curled single tusk, a damp humid cavern with an intimate campfire at its heart, a stack of sodden papers bearing generations of nigh-illegible scrawl. There was Groshnakk. The first syllable stretched proud and stern, before the final syllable seemed to violently strike from the mouth with an unexpected fury. Muzjhath -- he said the name twice or thrice, its form seeming inscrutable but ominous. A fierce figure seemed to rise in his thoughts, before suddenly dropping to the ground like a rag-doll, all vitality sapped from its body.

Thoughts continued to kindle within the orc’s mind, like a slowly awakening flame. It was working, he noted -- he would remember more names. There was Morgeth -- the sensation of having spoken the name evoked something ambiguous, like a faint kinship mingled with suspicion. There was Kozgugore -- he said the name long and slowly, the sound seeming to stretch throughout years. By the time the extended intonation had drawn to a close, he concluded that it was a good, proud name that deserved to be said more often. Thanuk. He said it quickly and curtly, and could not infer much about it, though he knew it no doubt had some greater significance about it.

There was Krogon. Kro-gon. The name seemed to rise and fall as he said it, approaching the very top of his register before plummeting back down to the gravelly depths. He said the name three or four times, noting the continual rise and fall with a strange curiosity. And Karak. The name began as it ended in a palindromic consistency -- though it sounded a trifle strange, the eccentricity of the sound was strangely reassuring. Mozrogg, he sounded to himself next -- the name had an aggressive edge to it, the first syllable buzzing like a kind of rusted saw, but ended with an iron-clad stoutness that seemed dependable if nothing.

He turned to some of the softer names he could recall, as much for want of stirring a variety of memories if anything. There was Rhonya, a warm sound that recalled that of Mazguul somewhat, yet with an uncertain conclusion about it -- the final syllable stretched out until it faded to something low, impenetrable. The name of Shargla achieved a similar effect, though the first tone of the word seemed strangely impassioned, burning with a kind of magnanimity that might yet turn to fury. Grogona came next, the name seeming to evoke a ferocity tempered by honor, the phonetic similitude of the latter syllable. Another name suggested itself to the orc, that of Keishara -- he chewed the sensation of the word over, before surmising it felt similarly strange, bold and brave to start yet slowly languishing melancholically towards its low, guttural end.

These softer sounds were too nuanced for the orc, so he resolved to return to interpreting harsher, blunter names. There was Trakmar -- fierce and primal when sounded out, but he drew a certain satisfaction in its brusqueness. The word Gruulg sounded altogether different, loud and bombastic, betraying a certain simplicity that seemed charming if anything. The name Revax was another peculiar change, blunt and imprecise with a drawn out, almost slurred final syllable. There were so many other names he was now starting to recall that it would surely take days to discover the nuances and sensations of sounding them -- Krezurgesh, Goru, Therak, Grekthar, Vraagar, Vezara, Tazok, Grunnak, and many, many others. Such a diverse range of interesting sounds. He was glad to know each special word. Each seemed to awaken some faint memory or sensation within the depths of his being.

Another name slowly suggested itself to him, and the orc took time to consider each of its parts before slowly and clearly sounding it out. Rar-guh-nah-sha. Now quicker and all together. Rargnasha. The syllables each suggested a kind of vigorous physicality and boldness, but strung carefully together connoted a kind of structural resilience -- as if each small sound had been tactically and painstakingly arranged over many hours of effort. Nonetheless, the orc could not dismiss a strange uneasiness he felt -- unlike the names he had sounded with expressive mouth and sharp tongue, there dwelled a dull pain elsewhere. He turned his attention to the severed stumps where once he had possessed little-fingers, and though he could not remember quite why, was suddenly possessed by an acute and painful sensation that he had not experienced in some time. This pain originated in the orc’s hollow bosom, and traveled upwards to his lips, attempting to recall something important but painful.

V--

--sh--

As the orc attempted to articulate that significant but forgotten sound, he noticed that the sharp sensation had already faded back into the nothingness he was used to in undeath. He attempted to recall that pained sound one final time, but being met with no success, eventually ceased his efforts. If he had forgotten certain things, it would be of no use to bemoan their absence -- he would instead focus on those pleasing memories that still remained within his recollection, lest they too be lost forever.

The orc continued his slow journey onwards. The sun was slowly rising, stirring a blood red dawn across a bold new day.

Last edited by Sadok on Fri Nov 01, 2013 5:45 pm; edited 1 time in total

The orc continued on, day after day, night after night, still with little idea where he was going or why. His seemingly-endless wandering had a feeling of utter inertia -- perhaps he would walk until the end of days and still not be any closer to his destination, whatever it was.

His mind was failing -- or rather, his soul was failing. Luk Vileclaw was many things, but ultimately he was an amateur in the arts of necromancy -- a simpering whimpering child compared to those schooled in Kelthuzadian orthodoxy.

Yes, he had managed after years of experimentation to tether Sharptongue’s soul to Grimgash’s corpse through a vampiric soulblade not of his own forging. Nonetheless, the link between body and soul was tenuous, and even after the ritual at the Shrine of Lo’gosh, the soulblade’s runic engrams were destabilising. Small cracks, chips and dints had begun to appear around and within the blade’s glyphic sigils.

The orc was certain that this ongoing disintegration of the soulblade was somehow linked to his degenerating memory, but he didn’t know how to find help. He didn’t even know where he was -- squinting in the darkness, he apprehended desolate, craggy terrain around him, a parched remnant of a lake in the distance, and beyond that peaks wrapped in thick fog.

It was hopeless. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t find even a moment of escape from his present predicament. But if he closed his eyes, he reasoned to himself, and tried to invoke some distant memory, perhaps the orc might get the respite he so greatly needed. He forced his unnaturally glowing eyes shut, and tried to conjure up some vision of the past.

Names had worked before, but he had ran out of names. Poetry had failed him. Perhaps sensations might yield something. He slowly slumped onto the rough jagged ground with a thud.

A thud.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

The dull thundering of a kodo-drawn caravan scattered russet dust everywhere as it rumbled into Razor Hill. The blood-red sun was setting slowly on the horizon, but the small trading outpost still hummed with hustle and bustle into the evening hours.

Cactus apples’ saccharine scent, the thick musk of tanned hides, kodo excrement: all of these and more mixed to form an intoxicating cocktail of aromas competing with one another for olfactory dominance, cast on the warm air by a faint coastal breeze that still retained some taste of saltiness.

As the evening drew on and the oppressive sunlight was replaced by torches, candlelight and the campfire, a robe-clad orc passed through the outpost’s southern gates in search of rest and victuals. Sniffy Sadok Slitherblade superciliously swaggered, subconsciously suggesting his sense of self-superiority to the settlement’s denizens.

He had recently mastered the peculiar talent of simultaneously turning his nose up at others while looking down on them, and treated bypassers to an expression of the utmost contempt as he strode purposefully towards his first destination.

At a messy and small alcove west of the innhouse, the sweaty butcher-orc labored tirelessly, busy cleaving an uncooked boar carcass to more manageable chunks. Sadok’s proud, piercing eyes roved about the shambolic shambles -- “only I, a renowned arcanist of learning and natural genius, am perceptive enough to sufficiently grasp the integrality of that double entendre,” he noted to himself. The barren ground was caked in ash and charred innards and dried blood caked each of the butcher’s implements.

The most unconscionable offense was, however, the plethora of tacky stickers and gaudy decorations about the workspace, many of which bore Steamwheedle emblems -- clearly made by and made for abject simpletons.

One wood-framed placard stated “Spirits Bless This Mess”; another displayed an erotic depiction of an orcish female with an axe tastefully obscuring her labia; a third was a crude corrugated iron sign read “If Your [sic] Looking For A Sign: This Is It.” Sadok briefly considered vomiting in disgust but instead settled for the trusty face buried in both palms.

Curious, the blood-caked butcher noticed the arcanist mid-facepalm and brusquely called out to him. “Har-har-har! Oi, wuz yoo doon widdem bake in hand, blud? Yoo cryin’?” he inquired, chuckling boorishly. The arcanist blinked, slowly withdrawing his countenace from his hands and giving the butcher a glare with both incomprehension and anger evident on his features.

He cleared his throat, before noting in a precise but gravelly voice, that “you offend me in all possible and imaginable ways; preeminent amongst these being your utterly inarticulate attempts at communication.”

The butcher scratched his rear and shrugged casually. “Hamhok nut udderstaddin’ nut one wurd yoos sane,” he growled brutishly, “yoos tink yoo some pinkskin or wot, blud?” Sadok sighed wistfully, ignoring the question and barking imperiously back. “Silence: immediately acquaint me as to the whereabouts of your master, Grimtak. I have matters of consequence to disseminate,” he loudly declared, clasping both of his hands firmly together.

Hamhok seemed to glean something from Sadok’s irritation, and chuckled again. “Yoo haz waste yoo time den? Whoop har-har, dat be gud one, har,” he cackled gleefully. If looks could kill, Sadok’s grimaced scowl and glowering stare would have caused Hamhok to spontaneously combust. Instead, the arcanist continued muttering bitterly to himself as the brutish butcher cheerfully returned to the evening’s work.

“You have wasted my precious time, you intransigent, pathetic piece of vermin,” Sadok spit at the other orc. The butcher seemed to ignore the spiteful arcanist, but as Slitherblade turned his back, Hamhok grinned and lobbed a shank of pork towards him. The hunk of meat struck the mage on the back of his head, causing him to cry out in surprise and turn around. Seeing nobody within striking range, his eyes turned to the ground. He lifted the shank to his nose, and though nearly anosmic in those days, curiously sniffed the salt-ridden pork.

At once, Sharptongue’s eyes sprang open, looking around faintly in the darkness. There was something about that scent that gave him the strangest sense of déjà vu, but he couldn’t quite recall... couldn’t quite remember. He closed his eyes and tried to arouse some forgotten memory from the smell.

Remember.

The night had fallen softly and the vast plains of the Barrens were now dark and cool. Humming slightly to herself, the orc put the pelts aside and began cutting strips of meat from the boar. Picking some long, spindly sticks up from the fur-covered ground, she quickly and fiercely jabbed the strips onto them. Her speed and technique clearly evidenced an experienced huntsorc that had performed this task many times before.

Warming his bandaged hands over the roaring campfire, Sharptongue squinted and attempted to study the orc before him -- perhaps it was the heat-haze distorting his vision or just exhaustion, but he couldn’t quite discern her form. She appeared as an indistinct, blurred mass fading in and out of his perception -- one moment she was a faint mirage, the next entirely invisible. He blinked, squinted, rubbed his eyes, but still her form appeared...

“...fuliginous? Obfuscuous? Crepuscular? Wishy-wooshy, certainly,” the orc noted aloud, trying to articulate the exact word for the strange mirage before him. The blurred orc cocked her head to one side in befuddlement, walking over to Sharptongue and sitting next to him. She held the pork-kebabs over the fire to cook and turned back to the orc, her face utterly featureless -- no eyes, no mouth, no nose, only blankness.“Oi, Sadok! The feck are yer saying? Yer know I don’t know those... err, big words!” the indistinct blob of blurriness blurted out bombastically. Sharptongue stared at the shifting nothingness for a long time, saying nothing and feeling nothing. The orc-shaped void also seemed at a loss, before asking “What’s wrong? Yer worried about that draenei again? Yer know I’m going to kill it for what it did to yer!”

Something perhaps resembling a smile briefly passed over her empty visage, and the vacuity’s hand affectionately reached out and laid itself on Sharptongue’s own. Sadok felt... nothing. There was neither substance nor sensation to the touch, as if the hand of a phantom had come to rest on his own, or better yet, a hallucination. It was no hand he remembered -- merely an adscititious appendage with no significance. Sadok despaired, shutting his eyes and trying to draw himself out of this memory.

“Yer worried about me? Yer know--

No.

“--that I will serve the tribe--”

No-no-no.

“but I will stand by yer side--” No-no-no-no-no-no-no--

“for as long as my legs will carry me--”

Nononononononononononononononono“--my beloved Sadok.”

NO

He violently pulled himself out of the vision, shaking from head to toe, alone in the darkness. He didn’t know what had happened, but he didn’t want to know.

[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]The forlorn orc sat utterly alone amongst the desolate crags of the Hellfire Peninsula.

His cracked soulblade gleamed with a sickly glow. The tattered shadoweave robes he wore, once considered highly-valuable, were now wholly threadbare, hanging off an anemic, mutilated and decomposing carcass that had seen far better days. With no pinky-fingers, cuts and wounds littering his body, and a particularly nasty burn wound on his right shoulder, Sharptongue’s reanimated cadaver seemed to embody the fel-tainted devastation around him.

He tried to think back as he squinted into the nigh-impenetrable potpourri of smoke, fire and Nether energies that muddied the horizon -- these shattered remnants of Draenor had not always been so. His memories were as hazy and obfuscated as the distant reaches of the Hellfire Peninsula, but he found himself subconsciously mouthing words as he slipped into some long-forgotten memory of his days when the pursuit of knowledge was his driving ambition.

“Listen keenly, friends: for am I about to impart a small measure of my infinite wisdom,” Slitherblade announced, projecting loudly from the diaphragm in an attempt to draw all attention in the tavern towards him. Perched upon a rickety stool next to the bar-counter, the arrogant magus seemed to tower above the other patrons of the Wyvern’s Tail, though most bore him no more notice than any of the staggering drunkards that would bellow or howl out above the raucous din.

Gesticulating widely with his arms, Slitherblade continued his monologue with or without the attention of his inebriated audience. “Yes, you truly are fortunate to find yourselves in the company of an orc of such towering intellect,” he remarked, further elevating himself by balancing on the bar-stool with tip-toes. A hairy orc clad in inappropriately-tight leather chaps staggered backwards into the stool, causing Slitherblade to nearly plummet onto the sticky glass-ridden floor -- he regained balance with his hands upon the bar-counter, looking around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed his near-pratfall. Nobody cared.

Without further ado, Sadok articulated his argument. “I wish to impress upon your simple minds a single point -- the weakness of shamanism. It stands as a very bastion of feebleness within our otherwise strong Horde. Yes, no true orc kneels to the elements and hopes for their consent, for what good is dependency upon fickle spirits with their own agenda? Impermanent power is scarcely power at all -- and we must have power whatever the cost! It is through self-reliance and the eldritch arts that our Horde will rise to new heights!”

Grinning maniacally, the magus awaited the inevitable round of applause that he had undoubtedly earned -- perhaps he would carried out of the Wyvern’s Tail on the shoulders of its patrons as they whooped and hollered excitedly; perhaps he would be recommended directly to Hellscream and initiated within his elite Kor’kron! But looking around frantically, Slitherblade’s brow furrowed as he saw nobody paying attention to his brilliance -- except for a single withered old orc clad in wolfskin vestments, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed upon the magus with an expression of curiosity and contempt mingled.

Their eyes met. Slitherblade stared hard at the wizened elder, attempting to intimidate the older orc; his gaze held firm, however. He began to speak slowly and quietly, and Sadok had to lean forward on his barstool to hear the elder above the thunder of riotous drinking songs and crudely-sworn oaths. “I have seen... many winters, my child,” the elder began, his face wrinkling up in thought as he carefully chose his next words. “Dark arts did not cause our people to... rise to new heights, as you put it; it brought them into the murkiest depths of hubris, corruption and madness.”

Slitherblade rolled his eyes wearily. “You say hubris, corruption and madness like they’re bad things, old timer,” he smirked smugly, a faint twinkle in his piercing eyes, “and I’m not your child unless old Iswer was porking half the populace of Draenor.” A dark expression of despair seemed to pass over the elder’s features as Sadok spoke the last word, and he repeated it weakly.

“Draenor. Draenor’s beauty was sacrificed to this ‘power whatever the cost’ you speak so assuredly of. It was when we abandoned the spirits that we lost everything -- our traditions, our families, our homes, our entire world. The Hellfire Peninsula... have you experienced its warped depravities?” The elder looked solemnly towards Slitherblade, who had been occupying himself by drumming his fingers rhythmically to the tune of MC Snorkwhizzle’s latest ditty, the Bilgewater Breakdown.

Bitches, fo’ rizzle, dis the MC SnorkwhizzleNow come on baby, do dat Bilgewater BreakdownShake it girl, do dat Steamwheedle ShakedownHon, I’m all like Trade Prince JastorBut faster, I’m past ‘er, a master of disasterSpittin’ rhymes, takin’ names, playin’ no gamesLike Landro, that ain’t no Longshot, ain’t no shitAn’ if you don’t like me you can fuckin’ swivel on it

Bona fide-a like Boss Mida, more dough than GazloweShots of Noggenfogger Elixir, need no fuckin’ mixerSwish like Krix Wiklish, oh girl, you wishYou could, hell, I would if I could, dat understood?Girl, dis the real deal, it’s surreal, tougher than TitansteelDat Mogul Razdunk wishes he was half the hunkYou got dat funk, dat spunk, dat junk in the trunk

Snork’s Bunch pack a punch, gonna steal your fuckin’ lunchAnd your girl, gonna eat out after we go all out, no doubtI’m like Warsong Clan, the front-man, got a game-planGonna take dis fuckin’ party all over KezanGadgetzan, Dalaran, Gnomeregan, Karazhan Wherever the fuck I want it, I flaunt it, you know you want itDis Snork Dog’s house -- bitches comin’ night and dayGirl got the kind of ass dat put the Booty in Booty Bay

Truly sublime, Slitherblade thought. He turned his attention back to the expectant elder, who was now staring a hole in him. “What were you driveling on about again, you puckered wolf rectum?” the magus enquired politely. The elder looked back, disappointment evident in his eyes, and said sadly and simply, “If you cannot learn the error of your ways before it is too late, my young friend, your Tanaan will become a Hellfire and your Draenor will become an Outland.”

As the wolfskin-clad elder turned and disappeared amongst the tavern’s intoxicated crowd, the world around Slitherblade seemed to distort and fade about him, slowly transforming back into the inhospitable wasteland of the Hellfire Peninsula. Sharptongue slowly peered about, his unnaturally-glowing eyes unable to see in the thick smoke that had rolled in about the craggy peaks and craters. He then turned to his own shattered body, a numb feeling of regret slowly surging through his rotting veins.“You know, he was right, you fool,” a shadowy figure said as it slowly strode out of the thick smoke. Sharptongue looked up from his reverie to see himself -- or not quite, for it was Wrokk Grimgash, whose body he had inhabited these past months. Sadok had began to think of the body as his very own, and had to remind himself that he was not looking into his own eyes, but those of the Red Blade turned Kor’kron assassin that had murdered him back in Revantusk.

As the pair stared intently at one another, Sharptongue could swear he heard words carried faintly on the wind: “You fancy yourself a wolf, Red Blade? Well, you know what happens to lone wolves. They get... hunted down.” Grimgash stood motionless, his piercing eyes still fixed like a scope on his victim. Outland’s Nether-infused wind still whispered: “If the dagger don’t do it, the poison will. Hellscream’s eyes are upon you, you bastard.”

Shaking from head to toe, Sadok leapt up in fright as a chainmail-clad orc sauntered cooly from the thick smoke to join Wrokk and Luk. Pulling down his coif and giving his well-conditioned russet hair a shake, Karak sighed. “Don’t know why you’re doing this to yehself, cutter. This is all wot, metaphysical balderdash, innit? By ‘eck, it’s all in yeh head, bruv.” Sharptongue stared in terror at the bard, fixed to the spot. The bard sighed dramatically, muttering. “Alright then, I’m not in yeh head,” the bard sighed dramatically, waving his fingers menacingly, “I’m... uh, the Ghost of Winter Veil Past! WoooOOOOOooo!”

As the three figures began to circle around Sharptongue, he let out a deep howl and pushed desperately through the hallucinations. As he stumbled deeper and deeper into the thick black smoke, he could see nothing around him -- he kept moving until he smacked right into something. Drawing slightly back, he narrowed his eyes and perceived a pale female with a mohican hairstyle and teal chainmail armor, with an ogrehorn pendant around her neck. “Keishara,” Sadok gasped breathlessly. The female stared deep into his eyes. “I died and yer weren’t there. It was yer fault. Yer let yer Sister die,” she drawled tonelessly.

Sharptongue’s eyes widened in fear. Keishara walked slowly towards him, the same disconnected expression haunting her features. In panic, Sadok stumbled backwards into seemingly nothing and fell head over heels. He hoped that he might fall forever into some abyss and never return -- that perhaps he had gone over the edge into the Twisting Nether. Yet he soon hit the hard rocky ground. Still surrounded by smoke, he slowly rose to a seated position, trembling hands on his thighs. Sharptongue froze as he saw something head towards him.

Crawling slowly from the murky haze, a small orcish infant burbled and gurgled happily as it navigated the harsh nooks and crannies of the craggy ground. Unlike its desolate surroundings, the child looked bright and healthy, clad in little fur vestments that bore no mark of dirt or wear. Its beady little blue eyes looked about with all the innocent curiosity of infancy. It squiggled cheerfully back and forth around Sadok without seeming to recognise him -- perhaps looking lost.

“...Igurg,” Sadok called out to the child hesitantly. Immediately, the infant’s head snapped towards Sharptongue, its small eyes staring directly into those of its father. Sadok began to stutter, then shake violently as the small child’s wide eyes bored into his very soul. Igurg’s tiny fingers twitched happily and she began crawling towards her father, who seemed rooted to the very spot. He tried to weep, but no tears came forth from his necrotically-infused eyeballs. Her plump little lips softly parted and a deafening screech filled the air. The infant looked delighted but the ear-piercing shrill shriek was bitter, vengeful and full of pain. Unable to bear any more, Sharptongue tried to cover his ears with both hands and rolled into the foetal position, rocking back and forth in horror. His eyes closed but he could still feel Igurg’s presence deep within his soul.

...

His eyes slowly eased themselves open, cautiously peering about. There was no infant, no Keishara, none of the others -- the thick fog had lifted and he could see far into the distance. Beyond Hellfire’s barren landscape lay the thick foliage of the Zangarmarsh, and beyond that he could almost see Oshu’gun, he thought. His eyes peered back to his immediate surroundings, and he was surprised to see a small scrap of folded parchment by his feet. Picking it up with still-shaking hands, he opened it. Upon the parchment there was a single word:

_____________________________________________________(A)Skarain - Skarain Feirand: Outlawed Worgen Arcanist, Magi of the Underworld and Speaker of [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.].(H)Nakris - Nakris Sin'voth: Captain of [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]Also known as Mahruon, Halisi, Reljen, Senrar, Inran, Flickÿ and Grimfeather

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